


Christmas Time

by votsalot



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Daisy is a lesbian, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Romance, F/F, F/M, Hallmark Movie but its Gay, M/M, This is lighthearted nonsense, You want a happy story? This is a (mostly) happy story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/votsalot/pseuds/votsalot
Summary: Thomas Barrow - London-based, Christmas-hating clock smith and watchmaker - goes on a December service call to Downton Abbey Hotel and Resort. Returning to his childhood home brings up memories, reignites old friendships, and opens new opportunities for romance.
Relationships: Daisy Mason/Ivy Stuart, Phyllis Baxter/Joseph Molesley, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 20
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

_December, Modern Day London_

\---

Thomas had just been about to replace the tiniest cog he’d ever worked with when his father called. He put the phone on speaker mode as soon as he answered, but even that small movement disrupted the procedure. Sooner than he could blink, the tiny piece was somewhere on the floor.

_“Thomas?”_

“I’m here, dad,” he intoned, and swore quietly as he crawled under his workbench to look for the piece, and again when he hit his head on his way there.

_“Thomas?”_

“I said, ‘ _I’m here_ ’!” The cog was about the color of the floor and minuscule, found only by a flash of stray light refracted from his magnifying glasses.

_“Good - are you free?”_

“No,” he whispered, and picked up the cog with the tip of his finger. He’d have to wipe the oils off later. “Yes.”

_“We got a service call-”_

“If it’s that antique store in Leeds again, remind them that the clock they have was never under warranty.” 

_“.....a service call from Downton Abbey,”_ Stephen Barrow finished flatly on the other end of the line. _“I hope you aren’t this rude with our customers when they call.”_

“That’s what keeps them coming back. I’m their pissy gay clocksmith/watchmaker two-in-one combo,” Thomas hauled himself to his feet, grinning. He never took phone calls - that was Phyllis’s area of responsibility. “I’m fun to talk about at parties.”

Stephen heaved a sigh and pretended Thomas hadn’t said anything.

_“They want you to go and fix the clock in the stairway - rush order. Extra pay.”_

“Why?”

_“They need it to ring in the New Year.”_

“What, for tourists?”

 _“Yes, for tourists. Now, the sooner you get up there and get back, the sooner we can start implementing Phase Two. Chop chop,”_ Stephen hung up. 

“Bye,” Thomas said to no one.

Phase two. Heaven help him. It was bad enough having to worry about how he was going to pay his half of the rent without being reminded of that stupid advertising scheme. It was never going to work - one or two ad runs in a second-rate rag wasn’t going to restore the fallen crest of a once-great clock-making house. Had there even been a Phase One? Thomas rubbed at his face, taking the magnifying glasses off his head. They were beginning to give him a head-ache.

Tea. That’s what he wanted - no, what he _needed_ . He hadn’t thought of Downton in a long time. He needed a moment to collect himself. Thomas turned off the lights on the workbench, abandoning the half-finished project and its well-soiled cog. It wasn’t going to grow legs and go anywhere, and neither were his father’s debts. He opened the door to the showroom and poked his head around the corner to look out the windows. A light snow was beginning to fall, landing like feathers on the heads and shoulders of people walking past. Not one of them stopped to look at the holiday display - a monstrous-looking contribution to the business from his sister Victoria. It was a cutout of Saint Nicholas, and he had his red coat opened like a shady side-street vendor. The inside was lined with wristwatches in gold and silver, studded with jewels. The text “ _Got something special in mind for a special someone?”_ curled around the whole thing.

All made of cardboard, of course. The whole gag made Thomas think more about being mugged by a Santa-impersonator in an alley than of Christmas morning. Or being hunted for sport by a robe-wearing watch enthusiast. Something special, alright. 

“I hate December,” he said.

“I know you do,” Phyllis was behind the counter, leafing through the folder his father had given her. “PHASE TWO” was printed in a very professional-looking font across the front. Inside were mock-ups for an assortment of ads to go in magazines. They were sleeker-looking than the off-kilter Sana, at least.

“How am I supposed to get anything done right with all this moisture in the air?” he asked.

“What kind of winter are you experiencing that the air is _wet_?”

“An English one. It just... _seeps_ into everything,” he gestured vaguely at the room.

“I don’t know if half the things you moan about have as much affect as you say they do,” Phyllis prodded.

“How can you work in a place like this” - he motioned to the sensor-wired glass cases filled with glittering wrist watches - “and say that? I could fire you for professional neglect.”

“I think the term you're looking for is ‘employee negligence-’”

“-or insubordination.”

“In order for me to be insubordinate, you’d have to be my superior. So it’s no good even talking about firing me in the first place.”

“Whose name is on the front of the bloody shop?”

“Whose name is _not_ on the registration documents at the Companies House?”

“Ouch, Lis. Watch yourself,” he pretended to be hurt. Maybe it did sting a little bit, but not in a way he’d ever let her know. 

Phyllis smiled, “You started it, for the record.”

“Anyways. Making tea. Want some?”

“Please.”

...

When the slow day finally eked to an end at 19:00, Thomas pulled down the security grate in relief. The sun was gone, and the seasonal streetlights shone overhead - a web of angels. The lighted storefront sign was an elegantly wrought _Barrow_ and underneath: _Fine Watchmakers and Clock Repair_ . It had once read “Barrow and _Son_ ”, but those days were long behind the family.

“What time does your train leave?” Phyllis tightened her scarf, edge of the red PHASE TWO folder sticking out of her bag. “Think you have time for a pint before we go home?”

“I have to pack and sleep - train leaves from King’s Cross at 5:55.”

“Shame. I thought we might see that bartender who was giving you the eye again.”

“I’m too old to be dating bartenders.”

“You’re thirty.”

“Then I’m too old to have you finding dates for me,” he sniffed in the cold air. “You never told me how your speed-dating scheme went.”

It was a practiced deflection. Phyllis only had the best of intentions, but she didn’t know he was still just-maybe-a-little-bit too hung up on Philip Villiers, Duke of Crowborough. Who cared if Philip had only been in two years of his life, and that it’d been two more since their relationship fizzled? Those two years taking exotic trips and living fashionably had been the best 24 months of his twenties. Thrilling and expensive. They still talked - there wasn't bad blood between them. And every time the door in the showroom opened, there was still that small hope that it was Philip coming in to have his 1923 model 2 Barrow-brand pocket watch inspected. Original, heirloom, and mint. 

Phyllis deflated a little, and he regretted bringing it up.

“Not as well as I’d hoped,” she admitted. “Every man my age who isn’t in a relationship isn’t in one for a reason.”

“You’re only thirty-six,” he tried to use her tactic against her.

“Yes - and I’m what you have to look forward to if you don’t start taking my dating advice. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

“What does that make me? The Ghost of Christmas Present?”

“No. You’re Ebenezer Scrooge.”

...

The commute from the shop in Mayfair back to their inexpensive (by London standards) flat in Bexley took about an hour and a half - Thomas was glad the tube was on schedule. He could already feel the press of time and the need for a good night’s sleep wearing behind his eyes. He’d already stayed up late too many nights this week, running through the spreadsheets his father had given him access to. For PHASE TWO, naturally. Not any kind of auditing or perceived responsibility (which was what he was trying to do). Thomas’s “most recent” searches consisted mainly of articles on how to save a failing business, how to file for bankruptcy, and how to tell if someone was cooking accounting books. Also pictures of George Clooney from season 1 of _ER_.

Phyllis had lightly decorated for Christmas; a small plastic tree in the corner with assorted accouterments and a snowman patterned tea towel in the kitchen. She knew he wouldn’t be able to tolerate much else. He knew Phyllis understood - she was the same with Valentine’s Day and Fridays that fell on the 13th. He hung up his coat and went right into his bedroom. There was a notification on his phone that Victoria had called him, and Thomas had waited on purpose to be alone in his room to listen to it. 

Vicky and Phyllis didn’t get along much these days - more because of the former than the latter. Reasons stemming for girlhood and mistakes made as adults. Some tensions concerning Thomas himself. He pressed play.

“ _Dad said you were going up to Downton_ , his sister usually skipped the pleasantries. _I know you’re on your way home now, so I have to say I’m a little cross that you’re screening me. Anyway - about Downton. I thought I should let you know that we’ve rented out the cottage -_ ”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Thomas swore.

“ - _so you’ll need to find somewhere else to stay the night. Hopefully it won’t take too long, and then you can come back to civilization. Say ‘Hullo’ to dear Mary for me. Also, we really need to discuss what the plans are for Christmas dinner -_ ”

Thomas erased the message before it finished playing. He’d just get “sick” or drunk at a bar without a designated driver. Or money for a cab. Either way, some level of irresponsibility was going to measure in his _very_ valid alibi for why he couldn’t make it to Victoria’s painful Christmas dinner. Preferably, on reflection, one that didn’t make him look like an alcoholic. Scratch the bar plan. Just imagining coming home to see his sister and father piled on Phyllis’s tiny couch for an intervention gave him palpitations. And Vicky would probably drag along that bigoted brother-in-law she’d foisted on him. Fucking Paul.

“What is it?” Phyllis popped around the corner, already changed into more comfortable clothing than the fancy designer suit she wore as a uniform at the shop.

“They rented the cottage without telling me,” he told her, warming to anger.

“They never!”

“You know, cutting me out of official business is one thing - kicking me out of my childhood home is another.”

Phyllis leaned her head against the door frame. “Sorry...but it’s not like we didn't know they’re terrible.”

“You’d think our paychecks would be proof enough of that,” Thomas muttered, yanking a drawer open and pulling a few pairs of socks and boxer-briefs from it. He knew the only reason he was collecting income from his father at all was because he was living outside of the family house and would pitch the mother of all (cheaply solicited) legal battles if Stephen tried to withhold that from him. In a way the money Thomas received for the work he did was almost a bribe - _Stay away from me_ , it said in Stephen’s voice. _Stay out of my home._

He and Phyllis were paid the same - really Phyllis should’ve been earning commission, too. And Thomas should have been earning money for the work he did criss-crossing the country to pay house calls to century-old clocks. But Stephen was holding Phyllis’s conditional employment over her head much as he held his conditional love over his son’s. So what if Phyllis’s ex-boyfriend was in prison on embezzlement charges, and so what if _maybe_ Phyllis _might_ have enabled it to some degree? Peter Coyle was a miserable cad languishing in minimum security prison for white-collar crimes, and Phyllis was repentant. Besides - she couldn’t get up to much earning £10.20 an hour, standing behind some heirloom-grade wristwatches no one wanted to buy.

He threw some more clothes haphazardly onto the bed - he’d feel bad about his lack of care later, but all he wanted now was to lean out onto their microscopic terrace and smoke. He rummaged for the crumpled pack buried at the bottom of the drawer where he’d stowed his summer-wear. And withdrew it triumphantly.

“You’re not starting that up again?” Phyllis made a face.

“It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll go light a candle” - she drifted away, calling behind her - “Don’t start having too many long days.” 

...

It was colder now than it had been earlier, and Thomas was reminded of one of the reasons he was glad he’d started smoking less - not being compelled to spend time in the elements against your will or better judgement. He shivered in the dark before stubbing the end out in a little pile of snow that had built itself up on the rail of the terrace.

“Is it safe?” Phyllis asked from the couch, glass of cheap wine in one hand and a library book in the other. Something about Alan Turing - maybe he’d borrow it when she was done.

“You didn’t really need to light a candle,” he observed.

“Maybe I just wanted an excuse to do it.”

He lingered for a moment in their living room before turning down the hallway, “‘Night.”

“Wait, Thomas.”

He stopped.

“I know it might be hard, but...try to enjoy yourself when you go.” And she looked so earnest, so hopeful for him, that Thomas couldn’t tell her no.

“I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas arrives at Downton Village.

Thomas was in the middle of a dream about ricocheting between different doors, all with eviction notices on them - the shop, the flat - he’d get to one, find the notice, turn around and go back, only to find another notice waiting when he got there. Red numbers, red letters, and red folders labeled PHASE TWO. Everything, red. 

Including the numbers of his digital alarm clock when he opened his eyes. 

Which said 4:24. 

King’s Cross? An hour and twenty minutes away. 

His train? Leaving in an hour and thirty minutes.

“FUCKING HELL-” he was electrified immediately. He threw off the covers and grabbed his phone, ripping the charger out of the wall while at the same time pulling blindly for an outfit in the dark. It was maybe three minutes before he was bolting out the door, throwing mental apologies at Phyllis’s imaginary feet because he’d banged about like a mad man. A personal record.

By the time he’d frantically dressed, grabbed his half-packed suitcase, navigated the tube for the fastest possible route to King’s Cross, stowed his suitcase, set himself down in his seat, and realized he’d made miraculous work of getting there with twenty minutes to spare, Thomas had some mental time and space to remember everything he’d forgotten.

Toothbrush - easy fix from Boots. Pajamas - he’d just sleep in underwear and a t-shirt. Tools - TOOLS?!

And it was then that Thomas realized he’d left them where they usually hibernated between house calls - under his bed. 

“Oh, no,” he moaned. He checked inside his suitcase to make sure, feeling out the corners. But there was no mistaking it, unless the whole thing had gotten thirty-five kilos lighter and turned invisible. It really was a testament to his mental state he forgot the whole physical necessity of the job they called him for.

He quickly ran through his options. He couldn’t just buy new ones. He couldn’t go back - it was a waste of a ticket, a waste of money, and something his father absolutely would refuse to reimburse him for (because he couldn’t afford to, but Stephen Barrow was still too busy pretending to be a nouveau riche business mogul, so he’d probably pin his reasons on “personal responsibility” instead).

He pulled out his phone and sent a message to Phyllis, who was probably up by now. She drank coffee with an older woman she’d befriended down the hall in the mornings, and they were both early risers.

Well, that was sorted. But not in any way he would’ve liked. Thomas leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. What was he going to do in Downton Village for _two_ _whole days_? What could possibly be there that would be entertaining and free from the pall this season cast on everything? He put that thought on hold and decided to sleep instead; then one thing he said to Phyllis about this trip wouldn’t be a lie. 

...

The four-hour journey was first punctuated with a switch to a different train in York. This train was a little slower going, but it would get the job done. Thomas was free to stretch out because no one had taken the seat next to him, despite all the tourists on holiday. He also wanted to preserve his personal space, and barring someone’s complete desperation, would do anything to maintain it. He put his feet up and from his pocket he pulled the pamphlet he’d picked up at the visitor’s kiosk in York. It had been propped up on a rack on the counter as he passed by - and it was free. Thomas wanted a hint of what he was walking back into.

On the front was a cheery-looking, snow-covered village that he knew very well. The color scheme was a maroonish-red and deep blue - the colors of the Crawley family crest. The inside read:

_ Book a family trip to the most picturesque village in West Riding! Downton Village has much to offer. Enjoy a stay at the luxurious Downton Abbey Hotel and Resort, set of the UK’s most popular and successful historical drama,  _ Clayriver Castle _! Shop the High Street, an eclectic collection of shops which provide a wide variety of big-city class and local charm. Frequent the local award-winning restaurants, cafes, and tea rooms for a taste of Yorkshire. Or, if you prefer a more rugged and sporty holiday, take an excursion out to the breath-taking dales with a local guide. We entreat you to join us this December for our celebratory Winter Carnival - a ten-day event beginning the 15th and ending on Christmas Day. It’s joyous seasonal fun for the whole family. Contact us today to arrange your visit.  _

He frowned at the pictures of the air-brushed families featured in the pictures. It all seemed a some kind of perversion - like having a friend that changed after suddenly gaining popularity. Thomas hadn’t been back in fifteen years, and he doubted that in his time away there had been a niche kept open for him. He looked at all the staged stock photos - and saw not one family that resembled the one he entertained having one day. He supposed he could imagine it, but that only provided an ingenuine sense of satisfaction. It would be a thousand times better if it were real, and overt.

He folded the pamphlet and put it back in his pocket. He had a call to make before getting to his destination, now that he was sure Stephen was awake.

_ “Yes?” _ Stephen picked up after the first ring.

“There’s been some developments about the service call-”

_ “What kind of ‘developments’?” _

“I forgot my tools,” he tensed slightly in anticipation of combating his father’s response. “But Phyllis is bringing them to me when she goes on holiday, so I’ll be stuck at the village until then.”

“ _ You FORGOT the tools? How could you forget the  _ TOOLS _?!” _

“I woke up late-”

_ "Don't you think I already have enough on my plate without having to worry about you?" _

“I'm-”

_ “This is a crucial time for our company. Everything needs to be perfect. Everyone needs to be their best. I can't spend hundreds of dollars and chase you across the bloody country to fix-” _

“I never asked you to,” the quiet heat of his conversation was drawing some curious glances from the old woman sitting across the aisle. “I'm just saying you or Victoria have to watch the counter for a day or two.”

_ “Do you think I have time for that? I might have to take back Phyllis's holiday - this is your fault.” _

“Dad, don't take her vacation away,” he hissed into the phone, and if that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, he added, “That's illegal.”

_ “Come up with a solution, then. It’s your mess.” _

“Ask Vicky - while she’s there, she can think about the next ad campaign or....something.”

_ "Ask her yourself. And if you run into any more problems, figure them out on your own." _

"Don't worry,” he snapped. “I won't call."

_ "Take good care of this one. They're one of our oldest, most respectable clients. If you fuck this up, I swear to God-” _

Thomas hung up before Stephen could finish his threat. It was times like these he missed the days of flip phones. He always enjoyed the finality of hearing the  _ CLAT _ of plastic against plastic after ending a call with his father.

He spent a moment looking out the window, watching the scenery of West Riding roll past. Hills covered in snow, the flakes falling thicker by the half hour. He imagined feeling cool, physically and emotionally, like the weather. He loosened his wool scarf. Maybe he should have invested in a pair of ski pants. Thomas briefly examined the bottoms of his laced leather boots - they’d do for trekking in the village, but not much else. Fashion, yes, but not much function in the face of a true emergency.

Enough of that.

Almost immediately his phone lit up with Victoria's contact picture, a profile photo from Facebook were she was standing with Paul on a beach in Majorca, their honeymoon destination five years ago. He'd cropped Paul out of it. Thomas let it go to voicemail. If she wanted the details she could call Stephen, and he could spare himself another round in the ring. While he waited for Victoria to give up, he rummaged in his messenger bag for his well-loved but well-worn copy of  _ Hamlet _ . It was a hardcover copy with excellent annotations, and over one-hundred pages of additional academic essays. Phyllis had given it to him for his twenty-second birthday. Inside she’d written,  _ Thomas - I saw this edition on sale at Waterstones and thought it would do the Bard proud. So, naturally, I had to get it for you. Happy birthday! Love, Phyllis _ .

His phone vibrated.

“What could you possibly be busy with?” Thomas muttered. 

Victoria didn’t even feature prominently in Phase Two. His father was the engine behind publicity, Phyllis was the public representative for the customers who happened to come in or who called, and Thomas fixed what they brought to him. And Victoria did....what? Arrange the window displays. He put his phone away and revisited his favorite passages of Shakespeare’s Danish tragedy for the rest of the train ride.

_ Truly to speak, and with no addition, _

_ We go to gain a little patch of ground _

_ That hath in it no profit but the name. _

...

Thomas got off the train in a flood of tourists, who  _ ooh _ -ed and  _ ahh _ -ed at the well-preserved Victorian-era train station. The green-and-yellow complex looked very pretty with the fresh snow, he had to admit. Like something from a postcard.

“Just like  _ Clayriver Castle _ !” a woman who looked about his father’s age told her husband. Thomas wove around them, holding his very light suitcase close to his body as he dodged the people stopping to stare at the period architecture. It wasn’t a very big space as far as stations went, but Thomas was weaving through the throng with the expertise of an irritable local - which in a way, he was.

He was surprised upon exiting to discover a line of cabs on the curb, a feeling that quickly evaporated when he saw the baggage-lugging men and women from the train funnel directly into them. When Thomas had last been to Downton, the idea that anyone would find the village  _ that _ unwalkable was a laughable one. But one changed with the times, he supposed.

Thomas looked at his watch - 10:23. His wasn’t scheduled to show up at the abbey until noon, but figured he would arrive a little earlier. He wasn’t champing at the bit to explain the morning’s mishap, but it’d be better to get it over with. Even if it would be embarrassing. He looked up and down the street. It was still quaint, still snowy. Buildings near the station overflowed with sprigs of decorative holly, every door had a wreath. Electric candles glowed on window sills. It made him feel itchy, but in an unscratchable way.

He could see up to High Street. It was well enough into the day that the village was thoroughly woken up, and shops bustled with locals and tourists who were buying for the holidays. Thomas couldn't understand why they didn't make the trip to Ripon or Thirsk, where selection was wider. 

A busker played Christmas carols on a guitar.

Thomas didn’t need any convincing to take the back way. Three reasons compelled him to do so; 1. A desire to avoid the crowds of shoppers 2. There would be no buskers on residential streets and 3. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the cottage before starting his work. He wanted to investigate. Rented out? To whom? It seemed oddly timed and convenient that the cottage wouldn’t be available to him when  _ he  _ was the one who needed it, and not Victoria or his father. But come to think of it, he couldn’t think of the last time any of them had been to Downton. Other than to  _ rent _ it, apparently. Which just served as a reminder of the desperate financial situation they were in. They hadn’t told him because they didn’t tell him _ anything _ , and telling his  _ this _ would be deadly ammunition for his one-man crusade against their dissociation from reality.

Thomas didn’t know why  _ he  _ had to be the one holding up a proverbial neon sign that said THE COMPANY HAS BEEN DYING FOR YEARS, YOU BELLEND, STOP WASTING YOUR LIFE in front of his dad’s face, but it was likely Stephen would just keep pissing and moaning about smartphones even if he took the time to notice. As if fourteen-year-olds with the digital-clock Snapchat filter were single-handedly responsible for the loss of his livelihood. Good God. 

When their mum died Stephen should’ve let the lease lapse on the shop in London and moved back to Yorkshire, where they were known. And not tried his hand at mass manufacturing. For all that had happened between them in the past decade, if he had the chance to tell his dad where his decisions would lead the company, Thomas would take it without a second thought. 

Thomas wound his way through the crisscrossing roads. There hadn't been much development while he was gone, and that which had been done blended seamlessly into what had already been there. There were a few "For Sale" signs on a couple standalone cottages, and Mary Crawley's business information was on them. So, she was still an estate agent. Business sense like a shark, that one. Maybe she could give his father some lessons.

...

The cottage looked almost unchanged from the outside. The winter garden was shivering under the fresh layer of snow; the tops of the beets and carrots looked well-tended to. The petunias and pansies under the Queen Anne-style front windows weren’t shriveled. So whoever Victoria and his father had rented to possessed the know-how and care to wrap the flowers and vegetables in plastic when it got too cold. No lights shone from the windows, so he assumed no one was home. Which made him feel a slight bit better about hanging outside the white wooden gate like some kind of creep.

A Christmas wreath was hung in cheery contrast to the bright red door. He wondered if whoever lived there now had put up a tree in the spot where his mum like to - tucked away in the corner farthest from the fireplace. Or if they even celebrated Christmas. Were the wreaths a requirement, he wondered? The village council was probably concerned with uniformity on some level now that Downton was marketable on the international stage. 

“Can I help you?” 

Thomas turned at the question, and came face-to-face with a man. The first thing Thomas noticed was how handsome he was. There was a round-hardness to his face that was reminiscent of a pillow cut diamond. His light brown hair was dusted with snowflakes; there were a few caught in his brows and lashes, framing deep blue eyes. But if diamonds were the metaphor Thomas’s mind first fell on to describe him, then the jewel of this man’s face was not set in precious metals - it was set in suspicion. The second thing Thomas noticed were the full shopping bags in his arms, and a familiar-looking set of keys in his hand.

“Do you live here?” Thomas blurted. Christ.

“If I do, shouldn’t I be the one asking questions as to why you’ve been standing in front of my home for the past ten minutes?”

Had it been ten minutes already? Thomas wished it were spring, and he was made of ice, that he might be able to melt into the gutter along with the snow.

“Ah...," Thomas trailed off. “I used to - this was - is? - my cottage. No, family cottage. I lived here.”

The man’s demeanor softened. “Oh.”

“Sorry for lurking.” Every word was coming out like the stumbling steps of a newborn colt.

“Are you related to the owners, then?” The tone of the interaction was steadily shifting towards conversational, but Thomas was still reeling from the unexpected encounter. He hadn’t been an hour back in the village and he was already caught in the sap of memories from over a decade ago.

“I’m Thomas Barrow - Stephen’s son.” There was an unspoken  _ unfortunately _ in his delivery.

“Well, uh,” the man cast about for the next step of social niceties. And suddenly it struck Thomas just how inappropriate this all was - he was the son of this man’s landlord, and he was dropping by unannounced and uninvited.

“...would you like to come in for a cuppa?”

“That’s alright,” Thomas shook his head. “I have an appointment - thank you, though. Have a gorgeous day.” 

And he slank away, feeling as if he’d just gilded a dead lily. Good day, wonderful day, great day, fantastic day, even - all acceptable bookends to an awkward encounter.  _ Gorgeous _ day? Horrible, ostentatious, and ingenuine. It would just make the whole thing more memorable, and Thomas would go down in a stranger’s personal history as the eccentric son of a despicable landlord (he couldn’t imagine Stephen being anything approaching fair or ethical). He walked the rest of the way to the abbey, wondering alternately where he was going to sleep for the night, if his shoes would be salvageable after this abuse, and if he’d be able to avoid that man for the rest of the time he spent in Downton. Even if the stranger did have a handsome face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas gets to the abbey.

Thomas stood awkwardly in the corner of the Downton Abbey Hotel and Resort offices, breathing in the smell of freshly painted walls. They’d always been very good about maintaining the place, and it seemed that what lay under the feet of their resident guests had recently received a face-lift. The layout was the same from what he could remember, but the floors, colors, and furniture we all new. Less like the detail-wrought early aughts, more like the sleek 2010’s. A fresh take on mid-century modern - a very different look from what decorated the rooms the tourists populated (which all maintained original period decor). He folded his coat over his arms and shifted from soggy foot to soggy foot - snow had fallen inside his boots on the trek from the village proper. 

The booking secretary who let Thomas in kept giving him surreptitious glances from her desk, eyeing the way everything about him dripped onto the carpet. It would have been smarter to call a cab, hitch a ride - but he wanted some time to digest his encounter at the cottage. He hoped it didn’t get back to Stephen, somehow. It seemed like something that would, and something that would make him angry for one reason or another. Thomas sighed and looked at his watch, angling his luggage uncertainly in the direction of the back door - 12:30. Right on time. But when they found out about his tools, they’d probably tell him to shove off until he got them back. Politely, though. 

“As I live and breathe - is that you, Thomas Barrow?”

Thomas looked up from his watch and was greeted with the sight of Elsie Hughes peering closely at his face, warmer than he remembered or expected. She was older, yes, but she wore it well. Her once deeply chestnut hair was now a lighter brown, kept up in a professional-looking French twist with snatches of grey at the temple. She still wore her tried-and-true self-imposed uniform of head-to-toe black; button-up, cardigan, slacks, stockings, and flat-soled shoes. The only major change seemed to be that she’d exchanged her favored clipboard for a smartphone, and kept it in a holder clipped to her belt.

“Hello, Miss Elsie.” It was hard not to feel abashed by her unprecedented warmth.

Elsie just laughed, “‘ _ Miss Elsie _ ’! You don't have to worry about being so formal, now, Thomas. Though, I am flattered. At least one thing we taught you about manners managed to stick, I can see.”

“Yes,” he tried to smile, look comfortable.

“I thought we were due for a visit from your father," she briefly dismissed a notification from her phone. "But I'm just so pleased we get to see you instead. How long has it been?”

He was surprised and secretly pleased to hear a muted note of dislike in her voice at the mention of Stephen - Thomas had never been under the impression Elsie felt one way or the other about his father. It was impossible to deny that the idea of learning his father’s Downton legacy from an adult perspective was slightly thrilling. Who else didn’t like Stephen Barrow? Maybe they could form a club.

“Fifteen years.”

“Too much time, too much time. We missed getting to watch you grow up,” she clapped a gentle hand on his shoulder, for which he was grateful. If she’d actually embraced him, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it. But Elsie seemed to know that.

“I felt fairly grown up last time I was here,” he said, remembering.

“Aye, that you did. You and Dr. Branson-Crawley, both,” she eyed him slyly.

Elsie had found the two of them - Thomas and Sybil - plastered beyond recognition in the attic the night before Thomas left for London for good. Inexperienced drinkers that they were, they had shared two bottles of Robert Crawley's wine between them and thoroughly reaped the consequences. Thomas still couldn't stomach the sweetness of port. Elsie brought them water and a bucket. As far as Thomas knew, she'd never told a soul. He'd never thanked her for that. Instead he’d left with a hangover and without saying goodbye, choosing the avoidance of her scolding eyes over closure.

“I can hold my liquor a little better now.”

“I'd imagine.”

Then Carson rounded the corner in his unforgettably grand and sweeping way, looking preoccupied with something that was most likely meaningless and inconsequential - like a bent tine on a silver fork. Elsie gestured to Thomas, who was back to feeling like shrinking into oblivion at the fuss. 

“Charlie! Look who's arrived to fix the clock!”

If Carson harbored any sentimentality about Thomas's return, he didn't show it. Thomas didn’t expect anything less - he was willing to bet money that the older man still harbored some kind of grudge against him for adolescent mischief Thomas himself had long forgotten. Like riding the luggage trolleys with Sybil, or sneaking dessert from underneath Miss Beryl’s watchful eye. If he was going to take a guess. All hypotheticals, naturally. 

“I thought your father was coming. I spoke with him on the phone,” Carson was as conversationally prim as he remembered. Right to business.

“I do all our service calls, Mr. Carson.” Wasn’t he good enough?

“I trust you share his skillset?” Carson’s gaze was searching, scrutinizing.

Thomas bit back his instinctive tendency to relay a sharp reply. Would his father have sent him otherwise? 

“Of course I do.”

“And we wouldn’t expect anything less,” Elsie intervened, giving Carson one of those “looks” that Thomas remembered whispering about with other children at the abbey. If you wanted something and Carson said “No”, it was common knowledge that going to the head housekeeper would usually undermine whatever verdict the Crawley family butler had settled on. The same principle also applied to his scoldings, dressing-downs, and other forms of punishment. Though Elsie could be perfectly terrifying in her own right, she was also an effective carrot when it came to belaying Carson’s stick. 

Carson’s gaze settled on Thomas’s sodden suitcase, and he nodded in it’s direction. “Did you bring everything you need?”

“Oh, well, about that,” Thomas drew himself up. Dressed his words in their best and most professional-sounding cadance. “I’m sorry. It’ll be a few days before I can actually complete repairs - my tools were left behind at the train station. They should be here the day after tomorrow,” It was a harmless lie that cast him in a slightly better light than admitting he’d left them under his bed; it lent the mistake a tinge of tragedy instead of carelessness.

“How do you expect to do your job until then?” Carson growled.

“I can still take a look at the clock and diagnose the problem,” Thomas proffered. “And if I need to order any parts, it’ll give me time to get them here. I wouldn’t be able to start work without them anyway, if that’s the case. And I’ll give you a discount. Whether I need to order parts or not.” 

The clock was almost all custom pieces. It was safe to say there would be no ordering. But he doubted Carson knew that, and it helped to soften the disappointment of being a dissatisfied customer. The discount did, too. Carson pursed his lips and sighed heavily.

“It’ll have to do.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Elsie interjected once more, “that just means we all have more time to catch up. Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise.”

...

The clock made no noise. The gilded hands were frozen at 3:12.

Thomas tapped the bubble-level he’d borrowed from the maintenance closet and tried to look inconspicuous. It was bad enough that he’d arrived in the wake of his own mistakes - now he was going to break open the focal point of the staircase in full view of all of the Crawley’s guests. His assumption that the blue-hairs and the boomers wouldn’t appreciate the naked display of repair soon proved to be incorrect, however. 

“Do you work here?” asked a woman who resembled a creampuff and sounded twice as sweet. She even sort of smelled like one.

“Not usually,” he was kneeling on the landing of the staircase, looking for the hidden release that would open the compartment of the architectural surround the clock’s body was set inside. Having the plans and notes with him would’ve made the process easier, but he’d promised a diagnostic, so the hands-and-knees method would have to suffice. He probed gently at the wooden detail that rimmed the baseboard, little fleur-de-lis and imaginary vegetation.

“So you work on the clock?”

“Lots of clocks, actually,” he explained, practicing patience. “My family’s company made this one on commission in the 1910s.”

“How interesting! Are you local then? How do you feel about all the attention  _ Clayriver Castle _ has brought you? Has it brought you any revenue?”

Thomas looked up at her. “Not local, actually. Not anymore. So, not really.” Then he found the hidden release, and the compartment above popped open with a small  _ snickt _ . The woman took it as her cue to leave.

“Thank you for the chat. I’ll let you get back to it,” she continued her ascent, trailing that sweet smell behind her.

Slightly assuaged that he wasn’t being too much of an eyesore, Thomas turned his attention to the clock. Because it was set in the wall, it wasn’t moved. So the pendulum was very unlikely to be out of beat. But never-the-less, Thomas lay the loaned bubble-level on the inner mechanisms. Perfectly centered - no problem there. There did seem to be a build-up of grime and grease. The hands were not touching the glass, no were they touching each other. Thomas suspected the mechanisms hadn’t been fully cleaned since it was last serviced - he paused at the thought. He looked at the back of the unfinished wood panel, where different members of the Barrow family had written their initials in grease pencil alongside the dates they’d provided their services. 

_ P. B. 1913 _

_ H. H. B. 1919 _

_ H. H. B. 1926 _

_ H. H. B. 1935 _

_ K. B. 1943 _

_ B. B. 1951 _

_ K. B. 1963 _

_ B. B. 1965 _

_ K. B. 1968 _

_ L. B. 1974 _

_ L. B. 1980 _

_ J. L. B. 1987 _

_ S. B. 1992 _

_ J. L. B. 1996 _

_ J. L. B. 1999 _

_ J. L. B. 2002 _

_ J. L. B. 2005 _

It was a collection of scrawls and dates, names and people. Things broken and things fixed. If he thought about it hard enough, Thomas could probably name every family member who’d made their mark. There was an ancestral story hidden inside them. But the most recent was the easiest to decipher, and the most beloved. J. L. B. - Julia Louisa Barrow.

The realization that his mother had been the last person who’d serviced the Downton Abbey staircase clock gave him a sudden heavy sense of reverence. Like if he touched the gears, he’d wipe her away. He peered closely at the interlocking pieces - it looked like the weight chain was jammed up in something, pinched. Hopefully uncrushed. This would not be a simple fix with the clock’s silent lever. He’d be needing his tools, after all. He pocketed the level and gently closed the compartment.

“What’s your assessment?” Carson’s voice sounded from behind him, and Thomas almost jumped.

“I’ll be needed my tools to fix it,” he turned. “I don’t think it needs new parts, though. So that’s lucky.”

Carson did not smile at the news

“Her ladyship would like to speak with you, when you’re finished,” he said. “I’m to escort you to the apartment for tea.”

“Oh. That’s nice...” he wasn’t used to dining with his customers, and adding  _ another _ long-overdue reconnection to the heap he’d experienced (two, but still) was an exhausting thought. He just wanted to find somewhere to stay the night and wait until Phyllis came with his tools.

“It is. Now, if you’re through - follow me, please.”

...

The “apartment” was actually the whole third floor of Downton Abbey. The family lived there during the on-season, and when the reservations were put on hold from the beginning of January to the end of May, the family fully inhabited their ancestral home. When film crews weren’t crawling in and out of it, he would guess. The smell of new paint was here as well - though there were still the old mainstay art pieces and antique furniture. The most valuable and treasured of the Crawley’s heirlooms were nestled safely in their everyday lives. But there was also an overwhelming amount of new - frankly, the amount of change he’d encountered today was shocking. Time had shaken out the rug of his younger years, details falling away like loose dirt. He always imagined Downton in his mind like a photograph - frozen and still.

“It’s good to see you again, Thomas,” Cora stirred a small spoonful of sugar into her cup of chamomile - it was a calming blend that suited her personality. Thomas sipped at his own to be polite, though the last thing he felt was calm. “Has Sybil seen you yet? I think you could catch up with this extra time you have.”

“She hasn’t,” he took another sip, and eyed Carson in the corner. He tried not to think about how the velvet couch he sat on was likely worth more than everything in the apartment he shared with Phyllis. If he spilled anything on it, Carson would probably try to intercept like a bodyguard would a bullet. “Honestly I didn’t know she still lived locally.”

He knew she was a doctor, but not much else. And now that he was here, maybe going to see her wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. He doubted it would be too painful, unless she’d been replaced by an evil doppelganger. Mary and Edith, on the other hand - before Thomas left he’d suspected they had been usurped since childhood. But now they were all grown, weren’t they? He could do some reconnaissance to see if it would be worth the trouble to meet with them. Or at least know what to expect when if they crossed paths.

“Yes, she’s a doctor at the Ripon Community Hospital. Her husband, Tom, owns an auto repair business,” Cora looked to Carson. “We’re very proud of them - aren’t we, Carson?”

“Incredibly,” Carson bowed out to the kitchen to tend a whistling tea kettle.

“I know Mary’s in real estate, and Edith...runs a magazine?”

Cora nodded encouragingly, “Yes! No one strayed very far from the nest, but they all found their own ways to build on it. Robbie’s still in school of course, but we expect him to follow in his sisters’ footsteps. Robert is collecting him from school for the holidays now, but they’ll be back soon.”

Boarding school. Thomas never had to endure that, for which he was grateful. His father’s inner delusions and outer illusions of grandeur never quite reached those heights, thought the idea undoubtedly lingered in Stephen’s mind once things started getting difficult between the two of them. Thomas used to find brochures for faraway, militaristic programs laying on the coffee tables - a warning. Or a test.

He sipped his tea.

“Is everything in order at your cottage?” Cora mirrored his action, infinitely more elegant.

He choked a little at the reminder. “It looks so from the outside,” he explained. “But Victoria rented it and didn’t tell me until yesterday, so I figured I’d stay somewhere in town.”

“Oh, dear, you didn’t come up without a reservation confirmed somewhere, did you?” she sounded concerned suddenly, and suddenly he felt like he should have. It added to his apprehension.

“No?”

Cora shook her head. “Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck - every bed in the village has been booked up for weeks. I’m surprised Victoria didn’t tell you earlier.”

It was impossible that Vicky would’ve known, but that didn’t stop Thomas from darkly imagining his sister had orchestrated this on purpose. Revenge for screening her calls. She’d get some distant cosmic pleasure out of it, anyway. Somehow. And he’d keep on screening.

“Oh. Alright,” he held his cup awkwardly now.

“I’d give you a room if we weren’t full up,” Cora continued to apologize. “But I think I have a solution.” There was a generous glint in her eye that made Thomas feel like a specimen of charity.

“Might I suggest putting him in the reconstruction, my lady?” Carson was back with a fresh pot of tea.

“The  _ reconstruction _ ?” Cora tutted. “Come now, Carson. We’re giving Thomas a helping hand, not trying to ruin his stay.”

“It’s fine, really,” Thomas held up a hand to stave off the wave of goodwill. “I’ll get a room in Ripon or something.”

Cora just continued to shake her head. “No, we’ll get you a real bed. Here, at the abbey. You’ve come all this way and it’s the least we can do for you. Just stay in one of the rooms in the apartment.”

“I can still have Joyce make up the reconstruction, if need be,” Carson repeated. Thomas was beginning to get the feeling that whatever this reconstruction was, it was a dismal place.

“No, no,” the banter between the two of them seemed regular enough that Cora wasn’t offended at Carson’s suggestion, just exasperated. “If he’s to be our guest I’m not putting him in Mr. Molesley’s idea of what a  _ servant’s _ room used to look like. And besides that, it would ruin Mr. Molesley’s good work.”

Carson bowed his head in acquiesce and retreated once more.

“I couldn’t -” Thomas began to protest again.

“I won’t hear another word against the idea,” Cora held her head high. It was a familiar look - she was an expert at exercising her influence. She called on the powers of old inherent in her county seat, for good and for bad. 

“It’s kind of you to offer, but really - I can’t.”

“Thomas, dear,” Cora smiled. “There’s a point where making protestations against kindness becomes tasteless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard's going to show up again next chapter, I s2g


End file.
